He’s come into the city from Brooklyn ostensibly to have lunch with his nephew and me. Ethan likes to say he’s having a “special guest” whenever Owen or Natalie join us for lunch or dinner. Ethan was thrilled to learn Owen would be his special guest today. Owen adores Ethan, but I also bet he dragged his ass all the way in from the other borough on a snowy Saturday morning when he’d much rather be working on his novel to nudge me along.
“Believe it, Owen Stanchcomb, believe it,” I say then turn to him and hold up my empty hands. “I’m scared. I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, and tears sting the backs of my eyes. “I’ve never had this kind of trouble writing.”
He doesn’t let my worry faze him. “It’s okay, champ. We’re in this together.” He mimics a boxing trainer and throws a few pretend punches, then rubs my arms as if he’s prepping me for the fight. “C’mon. First words that come to mind.”
I peer through the glass at the class. “How about something about movement,” I say, improvising.
“Movement.” Owen nods as if what I just said is pure genius.
“Or action.”
“Action. That’s good.”
“Maybe stretching.”
He glances at the glass. “Or kicking,” he offers, picking up the baton easily.
“Kicking and screaming?”
He nods and claps. “This is it. It’s coming together.”
I tap my head with the pen. “It’s in there, percolating, marinating.”
“Maybe that could be a song,” Owen begins, singing in a low voice. “I want to percolate, marinate, ruminate, remediate.”
“That does sound like a song. Like an INXS song!”
Owen laughs. “You got me there.” He stares up at the ceiling as if in deep thought. Then he snaps his fingers. “I know what we need to do. Get a quick lunch and go the studio. You need to be around microphones and soundboards. You need to get those headphones on and be in the heartbeat of making music. I have the keys for the studio, it’s a Saturday and no one is using it, so let’s do it.” He holds up his hand to high-five.
I slap his palm back. “You are the most awesome producer I have ever had. And you’re not too shabby as a brother either.”
Ethan runs out of the karate class. He rushes to Owen first. “Uncle Owen!”
Owen picks him up and ruffles his hair. “Dude, what’s up?”
“Did you see my front kick?”
“It was fu—I mean, freaking awesome,” Owen says admiringly.
“Hi, Mom. I need some water,” Ethan says and walks off to the water fountain while Owen and I gather our hats, coats, scarves, and other supplies to brave the tundra for a quick lunch at Wendy’s Diner, then over to the studio.
My brother may have had the right idea. Because the first day back in the recording studio is like the start of spring training. When I flip the light switch just beside the door of Gnarled Sunrise Studios, I feel that same sense of starting anew, as I walk into the live room, touching the microphone, look through the familiar window into the control room.
This must be what baseball players feel when they walk into the locker room for spring training in Florida after a winter away from the game. It’s the feeling of dusting off, stretching your muscles, getting back into the swing of it. Maybe here, in my element, I will find inspiration. If the best music comes from the heart, then maybe this is where I should be searching.
“This is so cool!” Ethan does laps around the room and banging the walls with his palms. He runs to the middle of the room and grabs the microphone. “Be careful,” I say, but still click it on for him.
“Uncle Owen! Can you hear this?”
Owen nods his head vigorously from the other side of the glass. He’s sitting in the control room, the equipment spread out before him.
“But I thought it was supposed to be soundproof?” Ethan asks.
Owen’s voice pipes into the room. “It is soundproof. But it’s so people outside the studio can’t hear, like someone walking down the hall.”
Ethan smacks his forehead. “Duh! I thought no one could hear.” He then walks around the studio, his squeaky sneakers rendered practically soundless on the hardwood floors. Not only do the hardwoods Jeremy installed add to the ambiance—I love the warm, homey, intimate feel of the blond wood—they also do an astonishing job absorbing sound. I’ve worn my loudest boots in the studio, the kind with wickedly high heels, and it’s like someone turned the volume all the way down on the soles.
“All right, Ethan. I’m going to sing. Want to play air guitar?” I ask.
“Yeah!” He breaks out his imaginary pick, poised to strum.
We run through “Mixed Messages,” then “Physical.” Owen gives me a thumbs-up from his perch inside the control room. “Now, we just need, oh, say, at least six more songs.”
“But no pressure, really.”
“None at all.”
“Actually, I was planning on doing a two-song album. Oh, wait, that would be a single with a B-side, wouldn’t it? And some would say that’s the future of the business,” I add, teasing him, teasing myself. And though I’m not suddenly belting out a new tune, I do feel better being here.
My cell phone rings then. It’s Aidan. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jane. How are you?”
“Fine. What can I do for you?”